Travelling, the location gets smaller:
a lodge, a room, a train, a car.
At the airport, it had come down
to my worn immediacy and zip-up bag –
and that lighter and less important now
with the ‘return’ label dangling down
like a notification of terminal disease.
And how much, then, does anything weigh?
Half my world goes down the belt...
...and in exchange, a right to passage,
a gate and seat are granted. And so it’s time
to cram with fellow dislocated cells
inside the hull...get comforted...get made secure...
The ground withdraws – and our lives suspend
like verbs become nouns, abstract, common:
inflexions sealed under a pressure
through which remote stewards flitter
bearing consolations wrapped in plastic.
I turn down the lot; let senses float
and pivot around a centring pulse
that, under the glass of my name and number,
resounds: this homeless tribe, this
unloved night; this journeying on,
strapped down in space, onwards, nowhere...
And I am dropping open – six miles up,
above the skin of restless nations.
Destination: the shared lost planet.
Shine on, our planet, under a pilgrim star.
Homewards is the furthest journey:
orbiting, off track, letting go;
the lurch, then the lift, snug into vastness.
From: Travels in the Middle Land, Dhamma Moon, 2013.